


Crying Shame

by spacegeography



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegeography/pseuds/spacegeography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Thomas was comforted when he cried, and one time he wasn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Because of the Duke

 

            Thomas stood in the hallway for an interminable amount of time. Staring blankly ahead at the darkness that engulfed the end of the corridor, he straightened his livery jacket. Ages ago he had slung it over the back of the desk chair. Eons after that he had kissed Phillip – his lips, his knuckles, feeling warm skin against him while emotion (not love, he told himself – not as if he had said the words in writing, in gasps and sighs every night he risked his job and freedom to be with him) rose in is chest at the thought of the new life he’d been promised.

            And then it all crumbled like detreating stone; a quiver, a sprinkling of dust, and then a shudder that forced chunks of limestone to tumble and crash to the ground.

            One swallow doesn’t make a summer.

            (But it had been more than that, hadn’t it. It had been ecstasy fueled by danger, stolen looks across ballrooms, stolen kisses in dark corners, whispers and giggles late at night, secrets swapped and plans and letters written afterward with the promise of “again.”)

            The struggle over the burning letters felt dreamlike. Thomas’s limbs were heavy, the air too thick to let him move and the paper curled and blackened and Phillip was hissing in his ear and so he stormed out as if he were strong and right, but there he was blinking in the hallway.

            Thomas moved eventually; he climbed the steps to the attic slowly. His throat got tighter with every step, and by time he reached his door, tears were falling down his face. He threw the door open as his lower lip trembled. He shut the door (quietly, mindful that he didn’t have the luxury of privacy, not with William to the left and Carson to the right of his paper thin walls) and a whimper escaped him. He flopped face first onto his bed, the metal framing squeaking in protest and scraping against the floor, and let his mouth open in a silent sob.

            How could he be so stupid?

            Why did he have to be so bloody _wrong_?

            He tried – he tried so hard for so long to force himself to push those feelings down, to look at a woman and feel anything other than indifference. But it never worked. Some bloke always came along and sent his stomach into a series of acrobatics.

            When he’d first seen the Duke he knew at once the sort of man he was and Thomas’s heart sped at the thought. He imagined what his lips tasted like, what his cock looked like, all while standing stiff and straight with a tray balanced on his hand. He had jumped at the chance to valet for him, and in return, he was rewarded with easy and shameless flirting followed by a kiss (followed by a blow job, and subsequently a summer full of sex and promises).

            By the end, Thomas was in love. Try as he might, there was no denying it. He gave coy glances to Phillip whenever they were in the same room and turned quickly to hide his ridiculously soppy smile. He preened as Phillip kissed every inch of him whispering how beautiful he was, as Phillip read him poetry from books with gilded edges. Thomas trained his body to wake up half an hour earlier than the hall boys so he could stay curled in Phillips arms all night. Phillip called him darling and Thomas called him love, and it was all so wonderful that on the last morning Thomas got to dress him, he pressed his face into he juncture of Phillip’s neck and shook with the effort it took not to cry. Phillip had run his fingers through the back of Thomas’s hair where it was not stiff with pomade. “I know, my darling,” he whispered. “Hush, now. We’ll write. I’ll write you a letter every day and soon I’ll snatch you away from Grantham for good.”

            But apparently a few swallows didn’t make a summer.

            Thomas wished he’d spat it in his face every time.

            But he didn’t, not really, and that was the worst part. His shoulders heaved as he let himself sob over what a lovesick fool he’d been.

            “Bloody… stupid idiot,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He rolled onto his back as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. What did it matter if he stained his livery? If he wrinkled it beyond recognition? It wasn’t as if he was becoming a valet. It wasn’t as if he’d ever be more than a footman – one that everyone downstairs despised and everyone upstairs didn’t trust, at that. It didn’t matter. This was his fate, to be no one and alone, unnatural and a fool.

            “Thomas?” William’s voce came softly through the door.

            Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course he’d heard Thomas’s pathetic blubbering; their beds shared a wall.

            Thomas sat up quickly. “What do you want?” he snapped, his voice rough.

            “I… well, could I come in?”

            “No! Go back to your room.”

            “Come on, Thomas, I just want to be sure you’re alright.”

            Thomas seethed. His self-hatred found a new target. He got up and yanked open the door enough to hiss, “I’m perfectly fine. Are you happy now? Got enough to talk about at breakfast? Maybe if you tell Daisy what a pitiful man I am, she’ll finally fall for you.”

            A frown formed on William’s round face. “That’s not what I’m about and you know it.”

            “Do I?” Thomas snarled.

            William stood straighter and puffed out his chest in a display of false confidence that made Thomas scoff.

            “If you like,” William said, “I can go back to listening to you cry though the wall, and tomorrow when Mr. Carson asks why you’re especially tired and cross, I’ll tell him the truth. Or, you can stop pretending no one in this house cares about you and let me in.”

            Thomas wrinkled his brow. William had never been this assertive, least of all to Thomas. He wanted to shout “fuck off” and slam the door but he couldn’t (he couldn’t do anything he wanted at Downton without getting a dressing down from Mr. Carson). Besides, with his eyes red and face streaked with tears already, he didn’t feel he had much of a leg to stand on. “Fine. Come in and listen to my pathetic story so you can feel better about yourself if you really want.” He left the door ajar as he stalked back to his bed, this time remembering to rip off his jacket and tie first.

            William shut the door behind him, and then surprisingly, picked up Thomas’s jacket and tie and draped them on the back of his chair. Thomas chose to ignore it.

            “What were you still doing up?” William starts.

            “Why do you think, I was up twiddling my thumbs? I was busy.”

            William sighs, as if this being considerate deal is becoming more trouble than he thought it would be. “You never came back down to the servant’s hall after you finished with the Duke.”

            “No, I didn’t.”

            It was silent for a long time, but William stayed stubbornly. Thomas, in the hopes of getting rid of him, said, “The duke is an arsehole.”

            “I’d imagine so. I didn’t quite like the way he treated Lady Mary,” William said.

            Thomas laughed, once, a broken exhale. “He only wanted her for the money. He’s ruined.”

            “Where’d ya hear that?”

            “From the Duke.”

            William’s eyes widened in surprise. Thomas wished he said he’d overheard it from anyone else. He didn’t want to think about the last conversation he’d had with Phillip. Didn’t want to think about how the conversation ended when Thomas kissed him (or how Phillip had pulled away from it, but let him stroke his hair, even leaned into the touch). He especially didn’t want to think of the letters burning; he used to read them over every night, running his finger over Phillip’s signature, imagining Phillip kissed each envelope before posting it and pressing his lips to the same spot –

            Thomas ducked his head as tears began welling up again.

            “What else did the Duke say?” William asked cautiously.

            That he loved me, Thomas thought. He said it so many times, but he must never have meant it.

            Thomas shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said.

            William gingerly moved closer to Thomas and patted his shoulder. “I guess I can understand that. But… will you be alright? He’s not going to do anything else, is he?”

            Thomas was almost proud that William knew it must have been something quite more substantial than a critique of his work to get Thomas so upset. His reputation was of sneak, but it also brought an air of aloofness, as if no one could get under his skin. He was glad of it.

            “No. Bloody bastard will leave tomorrow, and I doubt he’ll be welcome back either.”

            “Right. Er, good. That’s good. So… you won’t have to… worry. Or… be upset anymore.”

            “No,” Thomas said. He wiped his eyes again. “I’m alright now.” He felt so heavy from exhaustion, and just wanted William to leave.

            William nodded and went to the door.

            “Sorry for waking you,” Thomas said out of embarrassment.

            William shrugged. “I didn’t mind. Goodnight.”

            Thomas lay down and stared over at his dresser where he’d kept the letters. “Bastard,” he whispered, and rolled over to go to sleep.

           

 


	2. Because of Edward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lot of mentions of blood

           Thomas had seen blood before. He’d seen it in drops and lines from roughhousing as a child, in the angry red scratches he got when a tool slipped from his grip in his father’s workshop, in small welled drops from needle pricks and splinters as a servant. He had never seen it in such large quantities before the war. He had never seen puddles of blood mixed with dirt and sweat until the ground melted into unnaturally dark mud. He had never seen it spray out of chest as a bullet tore through someone’s lung, or as it splattered across the sky along with whatever limb had just blown off.

            He saw it run down his wrist and stain his shirt as he cradled his shot hand to his chest and had never been so glad to see it.

            In the hospital, the blood wasn’t so bad. It was soaked into bandages, contained. It never stained all his clothes, it never stuck beneath his nails. He thought gleefully that he’d never see a river of blood again.

            To be fair, it was more of a puddle than a river.

            Thomas, while he mopped and scrubbed, could still hear the drip of more of Edward’s life spilling out of his wrist and onto the floor. The nurses had moved him already, and stripped the bed, but Thomas could still hear it, and he could still see how pale Edward had been (his lips had been blue. Thomas imagined he must have been very cold in the end, and wished he had been there to hold him. He wished he had been there to stop him.). No matter how much Thomas cleaned, he could still see rust in the seams of the tile, still see the pool of blood, so red, so bright, and shining in the harsh lights. He only stopped when his shoulder hurt too much to go on.

            It was two in the morning by then. The hospital was quiet, especially in the corridor where Thomas sat, away from the sounds of officers snoring.

            He couldn’t think, just stared at the far wall. He rested his hands on his thighs and felt the warmth of his palms and remembered how Edward had reached out to him, how Thomas grasped his hand in return, feeling soft skin and tracing his thumb over the few freckles.

            He remembered all the conversations he’d had with Edward, whether it be light chat as he changed bandages or more as he read the letters that came. He remembered a time when Edward woke up from a nightmare while Thomas was on duty – Thomas sat with him, holding his hand, and assuring him it was over.

            “But that’s the worst of it –” Edward choked out. “As much as the dreams terrify me, it’s the only time I can see. I wake up and strain my eyes but it’s no use. This is more of a nightmare.”

            Thomas squeezed his hand. “It’s not a nightmare. It’s jus’ different, that’s all. You’re strong, Lieutenant, I know you are.”

            “I’ll never have the life I once had.”

            “None of us will. This war has changed the whole world. It won’t be the same, but that don’t mean it’ll be worse.”

            Edward reached out his other hand to cover where his and Thomas’s hands were clasped. “You are so good to me. I don’t know what I’d do if not for you.”

            Thomas thought of that statement often. He thought of all the dozens of ways he might bring up being Edward’s valet after the war. He could help Edward with the tasks that were still hard for him, guide him around new places so he wouldn’t feel disorientated, and stay close so he’d never feel alone. He hoped (in his dreams, in the space between consciousness and sleep each night) that the companionship would develop into something more. He cared for Edward, and got the impression that Edward cared for him in the same way. He could help him into his coat in the morning and then kiss his cheek; walk the grounds hand in hand, share kisses along garden walks; undress him professionally until the last garment when Thomas would push him gently onto the bed.

            His life after the war would be completely different. No more scrambling to keep his position through any means necessary, no more serving people he couldn’t care less about, no more lonely nights wishing he had someone to share his life with.

            And in one night, it was gone. His hopes seemed to be reflected in the red pool as he hurried to mop it away.

            Sitting alone, Thomas thought of how Edward’s heart must have pounded as he stole a razor. How he would have bit his lip as he made the first cut. How he would have thrown his head back onto his pillow, tears falling onto the scarred flesh of his cheek as blood fell onto the bed. He wondered what his last words were, his last thoughts.

            Thomas’s shoulders shook, and at last he was drawing in a great heaving breath and letting it out as a cry. He cried for Edward, for himself, for the blood still staining his fingernails. He cried until he heard the clicking of nurse’s shoes getting nearer.

            He tried to calm his breathing but wound up giving himself the hiccups. “Fuck,” he muttered, hands shaking as he wiped his face. He wished he could smoke.

            “Corporal Barrow?”

            Thomas looked up. “La – Nurse Crawley.” He stood. “I was just on my way to get more gauze. Excuse me.” He tried to slip past, his head ducked, but Sybil placed a gentle hand on his arm.

            “Thomas,” she said, “sit with me. Please?”

            Thomas hesitated for a moment before nodding and sitting back down on the bench next to Sybil. She didn’t sit up perfectly straight like Thomas expected, instead hunching over the same as him.

            “Major Clarkson should have listened to us,” she said.

            “Yeah, he bloody well should have,” Thomas said before he could stop himself.

            Sybil laughed, quietly. Thomas admired her. He didn’t expect the Crawelys to do anything more for the war than host silly dinners for generals and generally moan about what a tragedy it all was. Matthew, he was respectable too, the way he fought in the trenches alongside his men. From what Thomas had heard, he was a good leader. He was honest and blunt, never giving false hope, but never failing to inspire that each battle meant something. And now Sybil was a nurse, fully competent and not all squeamish. Thomas was surprised, but when he thought about it, out of them all of course it was Sybil. She had the biggest heart of them all.

            “I’ll miss him.”

            Thomas felt another surge of tears and could only nod.

            “You and he were close, weren’t you? I thought it was lovely. He never seemed to perk up as much as he did when I told him you’d be round soon. He asked what all the nurses looked like, but wouldn’t take anything less than complete detail when I described you.”

            A noise escaped Thomas’s throat. He held his breath to keep from sobbing.

            “I thought… It sounds silly, but I had imagined after he left we’d write to him and I would make up all these elaborate stories to cover for you so you could take a day to visit him.”

            “You’d’ve done that?”

            “Yes. I liked Lieutenant Courtenay very much, but I could see it was you that had the real bond.”

            “I… I had thought after the war were over I could be his valet. And… and…” Sybil rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that’s all over now.”

            “I’m so sorry, Thomas,” she whispered, and the two of them stayed seated side by side for the next half hour in silence, taking comfort in the sound of each other’s breathing, the evidence of life.


	3. Because of Sybil

             When Thomas opened his bedroom door to reveal Mr. Carson standing stiffly before him (yet oddly, as if he were under great strain to maintain his posture) his stomach dropped. He’d awoken in the middle of the night to a pounding at his door and stumbled out of bed cursing loudly at the interruption to his sleep. He yanked open the door (without his dressing gown and the top two buttons of his sleep shirt undone, no less) in the middle of grumbling “… fucking two in the morning –”

            Mr. Carson said nothing of his behavior or his appearance, however. Instead he said, “Please make your way to the servants’ hall.”

            Thomas felt his limbs go cold as all his blood rushed to his stomach, making him nauseous. This could only mean terrible news.

            “It must be the baby,” Alfred whispered as Thomas joined him and Jimmy on the stairs after he’d slipped into his dressing gown and slippers. “Still born,” he went on. “Happened to me mum once.”

            “Don’t be daft,” Jimmy snapped. His hair was sleep tousled, his cheek marked with the imprint of a crease in his pillow case, and if Thomas were not so worried he might have spared time to think of how much he would love to kiss Jimmy when he was warm and pliable and adorable from sleep.

            “The maids were going on and on about how they heard it crying when they brought the water and sheets,” Jimmy continued.

            “Fine then,” Alfred said. “I s’pose it died later.”

            “Maybe it’s disfigured,” a hallboy piped up.

            “Shut up, the lot of you,” Thomas said irritably. It seemed most likely that the baby had died, or perhaps been born so ill it had been taken to hospital, but he didn’t like to hear the others arguing about it. It was a tragic thing, losing a life that had barely begun. It was made worse by the fact it had happened to Lady Sybil. She had such a kind heart, and it was now surely broken. She didn’t deserve it, not when she had helped bring life back to so many.

            The staff filtered into the kitchen. Thomas stayed up front, but Alfred and Jimmy shuffled to the back corner. They didn’t care about Lady Sybil the same way he did; they didn’t know her the way he did. None of the staff really did. They hadn’t worked side by side with her, covered in blood and sweat doing work so taxing it left them dead on their feet by the end of the day. To each other, they were both bared, exposed by fatigue and fear, making a bond that ran deep. He hadn’t forgotten the night she comforted him, nor any other where they worked together.

            Mr. Carson took his place at the head of the table, Mrs. Hughes by his side. Both their faces were swollen with yet unshed tears. Thomas tuned out the sounds of feet shuffling and voices whispering, instead focusing all his attention on Mr. Carson’s next words.

            “I am afraid a great tragedy has occurred this night. Lady Sybil has died due to complications with the birth. The child… a little girl… is… she is fine. As fine as she can be without her sweet mother.”

            For a moment it all seemed so strange. It was strange to see Mr. Carson in his pajamas. It was strange to see the maids with their hair down in plaits. It was strange that one of the best people Thomas ever knew was dead and yet the world was entirely the same.

            It was silent for quite some time, with only the sound of sniffles and the blood rushing in Thomas’s ears.

            “Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?” Daisy asked.

            Mr. Carson took a moment to gather himself up. “Carry on, Daisy. As we all must.”

            Carry on. Of course they would. Thomas knew that in the morning, he would dress his Lordship. Jimmy and Alfred would serve breakfast. The maids would dust, the hallboys would gather wood for the fires, Mrs. Patmore would cook, and everything would be the same as it had always been, but Lady Sybil would not be there.

            Behind him, Thomas heard Anna take in a sharp breath as she began to cry.

            The air was too thick, there were too many people, he was too hot, and Lady Sybil was dead. It surely wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she was dead. She was the sweetest daughter, the one that cared about the working class, the girl that laughed in the kitchen as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy taught her to bake, the one that scrubbed bed pans and wrapped wounds and held Thomas’s hand as he cried.

            He left the room, had to escape as his chest heaved and tears spilled over. He leaned on the wall just outside the hall, his left hand clenched tight and pressed to his mouth to keep his pathetic hiccups quiet. His glove was on; he had remembered to pul it on before going down stairs so no one would see his blighty. It seemed so selfish now, to care about an old scar when Sybil (who would no doubt, if asked, tell him to hang everyone else and go without the glove everyday) was gone.

            “Thomas?” Anna said hesitantly from behind him.

            He glanced back and tried to get his breathing in check. He felt horribly embarrassed to be caught like this – so upset about his employer. She wasn’t his family. She wasn’t his wife. She was hardly his friend now that the war was over. “I don’t know why I’m crying really,” he said. But of course he did. She had seen him as a hard worker, an honest man, a man who cared for his charges. He never thought anyone in the upper class would ever truly care about him, his feelings and wellbeing – the Duke had seemed to solidify that, but then came Nurse Crawley. “She wouldn’t’ve noticed if I’d died.” Would she? Would she care more than the small level of sadness needed to mourn an employee?

            “You don’t mean that,” Anna said.

            Of course he didn’t. If anyone in the house would, it would be Lady Sybil. “No,” he choked out. “No, I don’t. In my life, I can tell you not many have been kind to me; she was one of the few.”

            Anna rubbed his arm and then moved forward to rest her head on his shoulder. He let her, glad for the contact and warmth of another person. Anna, too, was kind to him. She may have married Bates, but she was a genuinely kind soul who always kept one eye out for Thomas, even if she did often give him small sighs and cluck her tongue at him. Downton had become his family, and Anna was something of a sister to him; true to a sibling relationship, she may tattle and disapprove but there was friendship underneath.

            Thomas took another steadying deep breath. It still hurt, the ache of Lady Sybil’s lose acute in his chest, but with Anna’s cheek on his shoulder, he was able to focus on her, and let some of the blood that had rushed away slowly seep back into his face and limbs. He considered bringing an arm up to grasp her hand or wrap around her shoulder, but decided he preferred their position as it was. For once, he wanted to be comforted entirely, wrapped up as he used to be in his mother’s arms as a child.

            He would have been content to stay with Anna in the hall for a few more minutes, but Mrs. Hughes walked by and he stepped back to straighten up.

            “Oh, don’t mind me,” she said. “The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone. And I’m weeping myself.” She walked away with a small shake of her head.

            Thomas too, departed up the stairs. He still felt deflated with grief and would spend another hour in his bed letting the tears slowly wet his pillow before sleeping, but he knew tomorrow the rest of the house – his family – would share the grief with him, and make it bearable.


	4. Because of Jimmy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a very long one, sorry

             “I’m not foul,” Thomas had said to Mr. Carson. But crouched out in the yard, in the damp, he knew he must be _something_. Different, he thought, and then not for the first time thought, Wrong. It was like something was twisted up inside him, flipped the wrong way to make him what he was.

            “You should be horsewhipped,” Mr. Carson had said.

            “There’s nothing between us except my fists,” Jimmy had said.

            “Get out, and don’t let me see your face round here again,” his father had said.

            Thomas slid further down the wall; he heard the bricks scraping his coat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His hair hung limply over his forehead as he crushed his hat in his hands, and tears dripped down his nose. He was ruined. Ten years of work and no reference. He couldn’t work again, not in a house, not in a factory – they’d all know why he was dismissed. Everyone knew his secret now. They knew what sort of man he was.

            At least, he thought, I’m not being carted off to prison.

            But it was a small consolation. He was still left with a ruined life and regret heavy on chest every time he thought of Jimmy. Jimmy, who Lord help him he still loved. He shouldn’t’ve gone into his room, certainly shouldn’t have kissed him while he was asleep. When did he get so stupid? So careless and unthinking? One crush, one ounce of hope, and he’d ruined his whole life. All because something deep inside him was all backwards and wrong.

            Perhaps, a small voice in the back of his mind supplied, being horsewhipped is the only way to fix it.

            A fresh, loud sob escaped him. He didn’t want to think like that. He wanted to stand as proud and sure as he always did. He wanted to kid himself that he was better than everyone else with their sordid little lives and their stupid problems while Thomas had a plan and could fight his way through anything. Yet, there he was, crying against the wall of the kitchen.

            “Mr. Barrow?” Mrs. Hughes voice said as she stepped outside. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”

            Thomas pushed himself to his feet. He found he couldn’t even look Mrs. Hughes in the eye. What would she think of him? She had always been kind to the staff, clucking after them like a mother hen, and pulling back Mr. Carson when he got too strict. But now… he didn’t think even she could be of any solace. Surely she would side with Mr. Carson when she found out the truth. Even her kindness couldn’t extend so far as to forgive this sin.

            “I know you’re leaving,” she said as she came towards him. “But surely things can’t be as black as all that. You’re trained now. You could apply for a position as a butler.”

            “You don’t know everything then,” he said bitterly. She asked him to tell her about it, but he shook his head, fresh tears forming, and choked out, “I’m afraid if I do, Mrs. Hughes, that it will shock and disgust you.”

            “Shock and disgust,” she said softly. “My, my. I think I have to hear it now.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him back inside, through to her pantry.  Mrs. Hughes settled him down next to the dwindling fire and forced a cup of tea in to his shaking hands, all while he shivered and sniffled.

            She sat down across from him and sipped her tea, not saying a word. Thomas knew she was trying to be patient, but the silence fell heavy on him, like an extra layer of guilt.

            “I’ve made a mistake, Mrs. Hughes. One that I can’t make right.”

            “Oh, Thomas, now I know you’ve made your share of missteps in the time I’ve known you, but you always find a way to get back on your feet. Surely together we can think of something.”

            “No,” he choked out. “No, we can’t Mrs. Hughes. When you hear what I’ve done, you won’t want to help me, either. You’ll send me out like Mr. Carson.”

            “I think you underestimate me, Mr. Barrow. Come now, what is it that’s so shocking and disgusting?”

            “I… I’m not right, Mrs. Hughes. I feel.... unnatural urges towards men. I always have, and I don’t think there’s anything I could do to stop it. And… I found myself quite… taken with Jimmy. I thought he was the same, I thought he liked me the same. So I went to his room at night… I kissed him, Mrs. Hughes. And he, he wasn’t very happy about it. Not a bit. And now Mr. Carson isn’t even giving me a reference.”

            Mrs. Hughes got up and wrapped her arms around him. He pushed his face into her shoulder and cried and breathed in the comforting scent of her perfume. “Now, now,” she said as she rubbed circles on his back. “I’ll speak with Mr. Carson. And I don’t think I have to tell you it was foolish to kiss that silly boy. How you even got close enough to try it, I wonder.”

            “Well,” Thomas hiccupped, “he were asleep.”

            “Asleep! Thomas. I think anyone would be angry to be woken up by a strange man kissing them. We’re not in a fairy story.”

            “I-I know, Mrs. Hughes. It was a very stupid thing. I’m s-sorry for it, and no mistake.”

            “I’m sure you are, dear. Now, wipe your tears. I’ll sort out Mr. Carson so you can get your reference. You’ve been a very good worker, Thomas. Not always a kind one, but very determined. You deserve to work.”

            “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I can’t tell you –”

            “Don’t worry, Mr. Barrow. I understand. You can stay here until you think you’re ready to face the world.”

            Thomas nodded, and Mrs. Hughes patted his shoulder and slipped out. He stayed warm by the fire, drinking his tea, and hiccupping through the last of his tears. Soon, his eyes were no longer red, and he stood, ready to face the others in the servant’s hall.

           


	5. Because of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas doesn't cry in season 4 (probably because he's barely even in season 4) so I had to make this one up completely. Enjoy some sick Thomas and OMC

            The only other time Thomas had been on a ship had been during the war, crossing the channel. It had been terrible – on the way there he smoked a whole pack of cigarettes to try to calm his shaking hands while men shouted and machinery scraped against the steel of the boat all around him. Each sound made him jump, as much as he could, packed in as the soldiers were. He’d felt sick, but it was mostly from nerves rather than the pitching of the ship.

            Of course, he was only on that ship for two hours before they landed and he was on solid ground. He’d been on the steam ship with his Lordship for three days now, and had another four or five to go. Thomas figured, at this rate, he’d be down twenty pounds by time they reached America.

            At first the ship wasn’t bad. It took a day to get used to subtle motion that had him accidently veering off course and bumping into the walls, but after that it wasn’t so bad. The ship was so large that the usual rocking of the waves could barely be felt. Still, sleeping with the motion tended to make him feel ill, and he therefore hadn’t eaten breakfast since boarding. Now, though, Thomas wasn’t sure there was any food left in his stomach.

            There was a storm. Not a bad one, not one that would put them in much danger, but the pitch and roll of the boat became much more severe. Lord Grantham had looked a bit green when Thomas had undressed him that night, too. Thomas, however, was taking it much worse. He couldn’t sleep from the bubbling in his stomach, and it seemed he got up every ten minutes to heave in the small bathroom.

            There was only one bathroom to be shared by the male servants in the hall, so by the fourth time Thomas got up to be sick, he stumbled out (wiping his mouth with the back of his hand) and nearly bumped into a man wearing green striped pajamas.

            “Sorry,” Thomas said. The movement of his throat made him feel like gagging.

            “Keep it down, would ya,” the man said in an American accent. “We can all hear you. Puke in your room instead of making us all listen.”

            Thomas’s green face turned a bit pink. He mumbled apologies and staggered away, but didn’t go to his room. He was sharing, and didn’t suspect his roommate would like to hear him either. He’d already complained once about the door slamming shut behind him.

            Thomas instead climbed the stairs to the deck, thinking fresh air might help. It didn’t. If anything, the motion was harsher. Thomas nearly fell headlong over the rail as he lurched over to vomit into the waves. The muscles of his stomach felt sore, this throat raw, and he still felt like he would heave again. The last time was bile, the concentrated acidity burning his throat and mouth. He hadn’t been so violently sick since was a child with a nasty flue.

            He figured he was in for a long night, and so he turned around and sat on the wet deck with his back against the railing. The rain had let up, but the wind was fierce as ever. He wished he weren’t alone. When he was a sick as a child, his mother always stayed by his bedside, smoothing his hair, giving him broth, and telling him stories while he curled up against her. He wished there were someone to comfort him now as the ship lurched and his stomach clenched.

            He stayed on the deck for another half an hour, his hair and pajamas getting soaked in the drizzle. The pain in his gut had not let up, and Thomas felt so miserable and sickly and tired that he let himself cry. Just four more days, he told himself. Then he would be in America, in New York City where everything was modern and new and exciting. And then of course, he’d have to get on a ship all over again. And suffer through another week of this hell. What if there was another storm? One that was worse? Or lasted longer? Thomas let out a sob at the thought.

            “Alright sir?” a voice called. Thomas turned his head and then squinted at the torchlight being shone at his face.

            “Fine,” he said thickly. He tried to stand, but his legs were too weak to manage it.

            The steward crouched beside him. “It’s a bit rough tonight.”

            Thomas didn’t respond. Of course it would be the handsome steward who Thomas had been trying to catch the eye for the last few days. He wished a wave would come and wash him away.

            “It’ll calm down in another hour. Rest of the journey should be smooth too.”

            “Right. Thanks.”

            The steward looked up for a moment and then his green eyes focused on Thomas once more. “I could take you back to your cabin, if you like. Or… or I could make you some ginger tea… If you came to my cabin.”

            Thomas studied him carefully – he didn’t want to make a mistake. But the steward only smiled easily and took Thomas’s hand to help him up.

            “So what’ll it be?”

            Thomas cleared his throat. “I suppose I could use some tea. To settle my stomach.”

            “And warm you up. You’re like ice.” The steward (“Alan,” he said) didn’t let go of Thomas’s arm all the way to his cabin. “Here,” he said as they entered the stark room. “You should get out of those wet clothes. You can borrow something of mine.”

            “You’re sure?” Thomas asked.

            “Positive.” Alan rummaged through his dresser and handed Thomas a pair of pajamas, stepping into Thomas’s personal space as he did so. Thomas swallowed hard. He didn’t think he was mistaken, but still, he didn’t want to make the first move. “I don’t mind.” Alan’s voice had dropped. “You need to warm up. And I’m here to help.” He leaned forward to kiss Thomas, but Thomas pulled back. He had, after all, vomited a half dozen times without so much as rinsing his mouth out.

            “I were sick,” he whispered as explanation.

            Alan nodded, and then began to kiss Thomas’s neck, his lips feeling so, so hot on Thomas’s wet skin. His hands ran up Thomas’s chest and began unbuttoning his pajama top. He kissed his way down Thomas’s chest. “I think,” he said, “you’re a bit too sick for anything more than some tea tonight. But…” He kissed Thomas’s cheek, his jaw, behind his ear, “it’ll be much smoother sailing tomorrow night.”

            “God,” Thomas said, barely audible.

            Alan helped him out of his damp clothes and into the dry ones, all while they took turns kissing necks, chests, and knuckles. Finally, Thomas was dressed and laid down on Alan’s cot while Alan prepared the tea.

            “Here,” he said gently, and they both sipped their tea in silence for the next few minutes, pressed close together on the narrow bunk.

            “I’ll have to leave before morning,” Thomas said when they were done. His stomach felt settled now, still slightly sore but much better than a few hours ago.

            Alan nodded. “Of course. But I think you can spare another hour with me, hmm?”

            Thomas nodded, and spent the next hour blissfully on the edge of sleep pressed close to another body while gentle hands stroked through his hair.


	6. Because of Jimmy (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Thomas wasn't comforted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have forgotten that i never finished writing this. Oops.

Thomas carried Jimmy’s bag down from the servant’s quarters. Jimmy had said, awkwardly, stiffly, “You don’t have to” but Thomas flashed him a very fake smile and insisted. He could not touch Jimmy. But he could hang onto this, hold the handle tightly as he wanted to keep from shaking.   
They did not speak as they went down the stairs. Thomas wanted to shout. An impossible series of events – a crazed dowager, a sudden fire, a damsel in distress, the wrong man opening a door – and Jimmy was sacked. Thomas could not help but think if Jimmy had stayed out in the hall, if Thomas had tried to dissuade, if (if and only if) Jimmy loved him, he would be in his livery serving breakfast. Instead he wore his tweed suit and flat cap and Thomas wanted to rip it off him, and not in the usual way he imagined.   
Mrs. Hughes stopped them on the landing to say goodbye. Thomas took the time to remember that Jimmy would not be in that exact spot ever again; the sun in the servant’s hall would never make his hair shine gold again; dinner would never have Jimmy standing straight, straining to look taller; the attics would not have Jimmy shuffle through them as he went to the washroom looking tired and fuzzy; and Thomas would never get his fill of Jimmy.   
Outside a cart was waiting. Thomas said, his voice close to breaking, that they could write (Please, please, Jimmy, please write to me, please let me have something of you even when you’re gone, let me see the sloppy slanted hand you have, let me, let me, don’t let me lose you, not when it hurts so much to love you).   
But Jimmy only gave an empty promise and extended his hand. Thomas held it, felt how warm his palm was, how soft the skin was. He had never touched Jimmy’s palms before. He wished it weren’t the first and last. He wished a lot of things in his life that never came true.   
Their hands slipped away and Jimmy slipped out of Thomas’s life. He watched the cart leave. Tears built behind his eyes and his throat strained with effort to keep any pathetic sounds inside. He retreated to the kitchen wall where he and Jimmy used to smoke. There was no around, and so Thomas let himself cry, not even pretending he was strong enough not to.  
If (if and only if) he weren’t the wrong way, it wouldn’t hurt so much. If (if and only if) he weren’t broken to being with, it wouldn’t hurt to be broken again.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know if there are any typos because I barely proofread this


End file.
